Recently I won a landslide election after a very, very dirty campaign by my jealous rabble of enemies. Nevertheless, I was elected President of the City, or somesuch. I ran an exhausting fundraising drive, and managed to accrue several dollars and a peso in a coffee can outside the Wawa, before I realized no one else was running for the position. In a brilliant tactical move, I wrote my own name in, and victory was mine.
As a giant among men, I am duly resented for it, lowly reader. Yes, indeed. The trouble began when I attempted to claim my rightful throne. I arrived at the Mutter Museum nice and early. Some peasants were milling around, to worship me, no doubt. I was a bit surprised by the lack of trumpeters. Fortunately, I am a man of enormous humility, so I suffered the lack of fanfare without comment. I stood importantly and brushed a few cigarette butts off my robe, since none of the peasants leapt forward to carry my train. I actually had to rap my scepter on the table to get anyone's attention. That's when the trouble began. Below is the transcript of the true events that unfolded, without the bias of the military-industrial-frankenfood complex controlling our media.
BlizzMasterPilch: Move aside! This is the king's road — and the knights you joined arms against were his very own.
Fat-Assed Peasant: Pardon?
BMP: You're sitting on a throne of lies!
Fat-Assed Peasant: Sir, the museum isn't open yet.
BMP: What we've got here is a failure to communicate!
Fat-Assed Peasant: Um, yes. If you wouldn't mind...
BMP: Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the king, steward.
Fat-Assed Peasant: Right. One moment, please. Security? There's a guy here in a red bathrobe and Burger King crown. Yes, I'm serious. Get down here.
BMP: Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night.
Jack-booted Stormtrooper 1: Sir, if you would come with me, please...
BMP: Say 'hello' to my little friend!
Fat-Assed Peasant: Oh, God! He's commando under there.
JBS1: Jeez. Please close the robe, sir. [into a radio] I need backup.
BMP: You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?
JBS2: Holy crap. What does he want?
BMP: Nobody puts 'Baby' in a corner!
FAP: He seems to want this folding chair.
JBS1: Time to go, sir. [muffled thump] Uh-oh. He's gone boneless.
JBS2: What do we do? Drag him out? I'll get his feet.
BMP: Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!
JBS1: Wow, he's heavy.
BMP: Squeezed and pulled and hurt my neck!
JBS2: Oh, ew. Get that robe closed.
FAP: For heaven's sake, give him the chair.
BMP: My precious!
Of course, the story was covered by the international news, and, as usual, completely distorted. Justice prevailed! I claimed my rightful throne, to which I was duly elected, despite the attempted usurpation by these infidels. The city and the democracy have been preserved, nay, saved by my heroic stance. Which I had to do single-handedly, by the way, since the National Guard mysteriously failed to assist me.
Fortunately, I never leave the house without a body wire since that incident with the Mike's Pink Lemonade. What was a 14-year-old doing out at that hour, anyway? That ID was very convincing, and anyway, I was acquitted.
To the corpulent villein who had the utter gumption to seat your ignoble gluteus I saw your name tag. I'll get you, my pretty. And your little dog, too.